Act of Mercy
by HaloFin17
Summary: As if it wasn't sad enough already, here is an AU of Patroclus' death with an exceptionally morbid twist. But in spite of that, I truly hope you can still enjoy it in a sad sort of way, and please feel free to review!


**Summary: **As if it wasn't sad enough already, here is an AU of Patroclus' death with an exceptionally morbid twist. But in spite of that, I truly hope you can still enjoy it in a sad sort of way, and please feel free to review!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Troy" or the _Iliad_. I also have to give **Torilei** some credit for this story, as it was a line from her fic "Only the Beginning" that inspired me to write this. Thanks, Tori!

**Summary: **Ok, I'll be the first to admit that this was extremely hard to write, and I'm still not entirely satisfied. I don't think I've truly captured the intensity and raw emotion that would accompany this kind of plot twist, but I've certainly done the best I can, so I guess it'll have to do. I'll also be the first to admit that I've done some pretty angsty stuff before, but this takes the cake for my Best Depressing Oneshot, as far as I'm concerned. But you can always let me know if you think differently! As I mentioned in my disclaimer, **Tori** inspired this fic with a line from her story "Only the Beginning" which I highly recommend if you haven't read it - it's excellent! Oh, and she does apologize for having inspired such morbidity, lol! She claims to have had no idea that one little line would turn into this monstrosity. She and I lovingly call this **"The Twist of Doom," **lol! So I hope no one goes into a depression after reading this, and I also hope that you all can enjoy it as a new twist that I haven't yet seen done before. Thanks, everybody, and hugs to all of ya!

**Act of Mercy**

Slipping into a loose blue robe, Achilles left Briseis sleeping in his tent and stepped outside into the sunlight. The sudden brightness made him squint, but when his eyes had adjusted, he was shocked to see that his camp was utterly deserted. The great warrior frowned, absently rubbing the back of his head with one hand.

True, he was up unusually early today, but having been restless in his sleep most of the night, he had opted to rise early in preparation for their scheduled trip home. Yet he was still understandably surprised to find every Myrmidon gone before he had even awoken.

"Eudorus?" he called, but only the sound of the waves answered in the stead of what should have been his ever-faithful lieutenant's voice. Everything among the tents was deathly still.

Frown deepening, Achilles moved uneasily about the camp, and further inspection revealed that the soldiers' weapons and armor, which had lain dusty and idle for days, were also absent.

"Patroclus!" the Myrmidon lord tried again, this time shouting for his younger cousin, but again there was no response. Only an eerie silence.

But it was as he strained his ears to hear any sort of reply that Achilles became aware of the faint yet familiar sounds of battle coming from somewhere in the distance. Suddenly alert and comprehending, the famed fighter cursed under his breath and darted back to the far side of his own tent. Rounding the corner, he jerked to an abrupt halt, frozen in terrible apprehension.

His men were gone, and so was his armor.

* * *

Prince Hector of Troy stood in the middle of the silent masses, staring down in sheer horror at the face of the young boy who had impersonated Achilles and now bore his inevitable death wound across the throat, courtesy of none other than Hector himself. The Trojan royal inadvertently stood and took a step back from the disgraceful deed he had unwittingly committed, still unable to tear his gaze from the child's scared and tortured face.

That was, until murmurs of the name "Achilles" began to ripple across the sea of soldiers. And then the prince knew fear. He raised his eyes, and verily, there came Achilles himself – the _true _Achilles – striding determinedly toward the battle. Their eyes met across the space between them for only a brief moment, eyes as blue as the sea boring into those brown like the earth, but Hector quickly pulled away and called at once for his horse. The feared Greek killer may have been without armor or weapons, but Hector would not be here to face his wrath and rage.

He headed toward the distant city just as Achilles reached the lines of men, yet he did not berate himself as a coward for running away. Now was not the time for this. He would face Achilles, but not now. Not now. Achilles would let him go, for the boy Hector had lain low must have been very close to the Myrmidon captain. Yet he could not be saved, and Achilles would surely stop to bid the child his final farewell.

And so the Trojan prince was safe – but only for now. Only for one more sleepless night outside of Hades. Hector did not once turn back as he rode on to Troy.

* * *

The son of Peleus looked on, a shadow of dread settling over his hitherto fearless heart as he watched Hector abandon the conflict in a sort of frenzy which would have been thought most uncharacteristic of the renowned prince. Then, he saw Eudorus – saw the horror etched irrevocably across his second's face, screaming from within his eyes.

And in one slow, excruciating heartbeat, Achilles understood what had transpired, and his world came crashing down around him into darkness. There never had been, and never would be, a blacker moment in all his life than this.

Any thought for his own safety long discarded, the demigod sprinted forward with greater haste than his runner's legs had ever previously achieved. He broke through the ranks of soldiers, pushing aside both Trojans and Greeks alike in his desperate need to reach the now still center of the conflict.

But the other men soon parted before him with all the respect due the immortals of Olympus, and he passed through them unhindered. He brushed past Eudorus and his other loyal Myrmidons, heart pounding within his chest, but he thought surely his heart would fail him when his eyes finally came to rest on the sight he had already feared, a sight he had seen far too often in his darkest dreams.

Patroclus, his _cousin_, a boy of only seventeen, lay gasping in the dust of Troy, his airflow stifled by the red torrents of hot blood that streamed from his slit throat onto the sand. The youth's gasping breath came in a sort of gruesome gurgling, the sound more repulsive to those watching than even the sight of the blood itself. His panicked, fearful eyes darted around the crowds above him, but when they came at last to Achilles, they never left. Upon seeing his cousin, the boy looked relieved, even happy, despite his pain.

Rendered temporarily immobile by the horror before him, the older warrior finally uttered a cry of grief and dashed madly to his cousin's side, kneeling next to him in the rough sand. Achilles hurriedly surveyed the damage as well as his shocked faculties would allow him, but it was too much to take in. The wound was far too deep, and Patroclus had already lost so much blood. He was choking, slowly suffocating in the crimson tide.

"Patroclus!" Achilles called despairingly. He held the boy's face in his hands, using his calloused thumbs to gently wipe away the blood that escaped from the child's lips. The youth convulsed in his anxious grip, seized with an agony Achilles wished he could shoulder himself. Anything would have been preferable to watching helplessly as his cousin suffered in the clutches of Death.

This could not be happening, could not be real! Surely this was nothing more than a dream, another horrible nightmare from which he could not wake. But he _would _wake – he _must_, because if he did not, this boy he had cared for over the past seven years would be lost to him forever.

The soldiers gathered around them had been stricken dumb by the trauma of such events, but one at last recovered his voice and took a hesitant step toward the two cousins.

"Achilles." Odysseus slowly addressed his friend in a low voice, pain and sorrow equally evident in his own features. "Achilles, it is over."

"No!" the defiant warrior exclaimed, not daring to take his eyes from the boy's face out of fear that, if he looked away, he would never see Patroclus alive again. "It's not too late! We can still help him! We can…"

But his voice trailed off. It was too late, and nothing could be done. Achilles knew this, but when the truth could not be changed, it was sometimes easier to simply deny it.

"Patroclus," he said again, his hoarse voice burdened by remorse and entreating the boy's forgiveness. "Patroclus, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

He could not bear to say anything more, but he did not need to. The blood flooding Patroclus' throat had made it impossible for him to speak, but his eyes said all Achilles needed to hear. They were full of love and understanding, even repentance for having betrayed his cousin's confidence in this masquerade, yet they begged the older warrior to stop the torment.

Unable to restrain his tears, Achilles mutely nodded. But only he would be allowed to end this precious life. That honor – that shame – would be his alone. He grasped his sword in a grip of death and raised it above his head, hands shaking around the weapon for the first time in his life. Patroclus' frightened blue eyes still pleaded silently with him, a tear trickling down the side of his face. This had to be done. It would be cruel for both of them if it was not.

At long last, the bronze blade fell, and Achilles' spirit with it, the Myrmidon lord unleashing a cry of anguish that would have cowed even the immortal gods themselves. The blow struck true, and when he had brought the sword to rest, the infallible warrior left it there, letting his numb hands slide down the blade onto the grimy, blood-stained armor that should have been his alone.

He moved his man-killing hands along the slick breastplate, past the shredded throat, and finally cradled the boy's limp head, not even noticing amidst the depths of his sorrow that his hands had become smeared in the pristine lifeblood of a loving boy who had died too young. If only it could have been his instead…

Groaning out his agony for all to hear, Achilles bent his golden head over his beloved cousin's so that their foreheads touched, and he sobbed, the tears falling heedlessly from his eyes onto Patroclus' pale cheeks.

He may have seemed outwardly vulnerable there on the ground with his back exposed to his enemies, but only a Trojan with a death wish would have moved against the godlike son of Peleus now. Not even his closest companions among the Greeks would dare approach him, for their fear was well warranted. And so, with their prince already gone, the Trojans likewise took advantage of the morose distraction and withdrew to their city.

Meanwhile, Achilles clutched helplessly at the strands of sweaty blonde hair beneath him, staining it with the still-warm blood from his own blindly grasping fingers. He shook violently with the exertion of his grief, his breath coming in short, rapid gasps as he mourned, and before long he was lying spread across the unfeeling body of his cousin.

The hoards of stunned Greek soldiers finally roused themselves from the horror before them and began to dissipate as well, the Myrmidons among them, as they listlessly returned to the shelter of their ships. But Achilles stayed, his mind a swirling blur of thoughts and emotions that all clamored for his attention.

And aside from the unadulterated sorrow that he could only hope to some day come to terms with, the warrior's raw fury rose to prominence. _Hector_ had been the cause of this, and the only thing that had made this atrocious act bearable was envisioning the prince of Troy beneath his blade. That coward had run away when he'd seen the legendary Greek coming his way, but it would do him no good. Hector would be dead before noon tomorrow.

Yet even that was a poor consolation. No vengeance, no matter how brutal or swift, could ever remove the image branded on his mind of the child he had willingly slain – of the young life he had treasured as his own, only to end now.

Odysseus came up haltingly behind him, opening his mouth as though to speak, but he thought better of it and preserved the unnerving silence that was broken only by the anguished groans of the greatest warrior in the world. The Ithacan King would let them be.

They had been inseparable in life, and it would be folly to try to part them now, in death. For only Death itself could have severed the bond between them, yet Odysseus knew as he walked away that the two cousins would be reunited ere long. Achilles' doom was sealed, his fate as sure and irreversible as that of the boy over whom he now wept.

_This _would be remembered. None who had witnessed this sad event would ever forget that of all the fabled deeds of Achilles, son of Peleus, the most valiant of all had been an act of mercy.


End file.
